


Scent

by PotatoesOfWorldlyDesire



Category: Being Human (UK), Being Human (UK) RPF
Genre: Cheesy, Cuddles, Cuddling, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Fuck I need sleep, Hurt/Comfort, Love, Monsters, Romance, S3, Season 3, Spoilers, ghost - Freeform, mush, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-24 01:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7488873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotatoesOfWorldlyDesire/pseuds/PotatoesOfWorldlyDesire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I loved the way the Mitchell and Annie relationship was written in the series- but it feels like we missed out on a whole lot of their relationship while the series focused on more wolfy-themes. This is the story of the first time Mitchell tells Annie he loves her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scent

He wishes he was something else- something worthy of her. Annie's bright eyes and innocent smile that is so beautiful, so gullible and naive and above all precious- he wishes he deserved something like that. 

John Mitchell- the murderer of the Box Tunnel 20, prone to hissy fits that end in massacres. Murderer of women, children, men; anyone unlucky enough to be near him at the time when he was feeling a bit peckish. Annie thinks that's all in the past, which it is. Well, it should be. It will be, god, it has to be in the past if it's going to bleeding well work. 

John Mitchell, who is just now holding the ghost of the most beautiful woman in the world in his arms and breathing in her scent- well, if ghosts had a scent, he'd be breathing it in. As it is, he's just sort of inhaling the air she occupies. Sometimes he imagines she smells of mint, or jasmine, roses maybe- tonight is one of those nights when he wants to smell blood. Fuck, he hates wanting for something so terrible- hates the worm of temptation that wriggles inside the darkest part of his soul whispering- 'Just a bite, Johnny boy. Just a tiny bite and she won't feel a thing. It'll all be over. It'll all be worth it.'

As if sensing his mind becoming more tightly coiled than usual, Annie's eyes meet his and her hands trace up to his hair. 'Hey, you okay?'

No. I'm thinking about tearing your throat out and I love you. I wouldn't want to tear your throat out if I didn't love you, and that's not okay. 'Yeah, I'm... fine.'

They don't talk when they're like this. Cuddling. It's somehow more intimate than sex, Mitchell supposes. Sure, he still wants to taste her and feel her against him in ways that she can't give him, but this way he can control himself. He won't hurt her. His eyes haven't drained of all Earthly colour for want of her flesh yet, and he prays they never will. 

It helps that he can't hear what she doesn't have- the silence her heartbeat should occupy is as peaceful as waves on a sandy shore. She's draped over him, her ear pressed to his chest and listening to the nothingness, that's somehow contented with her weightlessness. 

Great. Now he's thinking about heartbeats. Heartbeats. Pumping blood. Warm, bubbling blood. Rushing on its happy way through her veins, all over her body. Her shoulder, her breasts, her thighs, her neck... So many places to drink from, so much warmth just for him to drink long, harsh gulps of the elixir of life. Mmmm... Oh, Christ!

'Annie!' He gasps, a bit too quickly. She jolts up to rest on her elbows and looks into his eyes again, worry clouding over the happiness and the innocence that lives there and makes tea in her brain. 

'What's wrong, Mitchell?' 

'Wrong? Nothing's wrong. It's just...'

'Hmmm?'

'What did you smell like? When you were...' Saying 'alive' sounds almost racist, even in his mind. Annie is alive in every way apart from what is physical, and in some ways that's good- he can't hurt her like this, no matter what the darkest parts of his mind say, what they want...

'Oh!' She smiles faintly and returns to resting her head against his chest, and his hands find a natural anchor to reality in her dark curls. 'I don't know, really. I was always paranoid about that- when you walk into another persons house and it smells like them, magnified by a thousand, but they can't tell because they live there all the time... I never knew what my actual smell was. I used to spray perfume samples around the house. Drove Owen mad.' Her arms tighten around him slightly, and he wonders if there's a painful memory behind what she's saying. That bastard. He squeezes her reassuringly and she continues,

'I always used cinnamon shampoo and coffee-scented conditioner, because the combination was weirdly... Nice. My mum used to make us cinnamon-coffee at Christmas, and it was always lovely.' Annie sighs here at the memories and he wants to say something but his mouth is stuck once again, with an entirely different kind of hunger. 'And then, I was always spilling tea all over myself. I can imagine I spent a good amount of time smelling like chamomile. I suppose I'm rather lucky I was wearing all-white, non-stained clothing when I died.' She chuckles slightly to herself. 'Can you get a hypothetical scent from that?'

'Mitchell? Mitch-mmpf!' He kisses her, partly to silence any questions she might have as to why he asked such a question, and partly because he swears he can smell something in the air- cinnamon, coffee, chamomile- all things that are warm and good and Annie. He's not thinking about vulgar cravings anymore, just her. The woman he loves who is warm and bright and too good for him. One pure thing he can't do without. They break apart for air, more out of habit than anything else really. 'Wow. I must smell hypothetically good, then...' She leans in for another peck before returning to the original position that allows for the best listening to the silence. Annie closes her eyes.

'I love you, Annie Sawyer.' Her eyes don't open again when she replies,

'And I you, mister John Mitchell.'

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think, if you have any constructive criticism! 
> 
> Haters will be thrown in the wolf cage.


End file.
